Hollow Sea

by James Hanley

  Others were silent. One man hummed softly to himself as he packed, unhurried, calm, but wholly certain now that this voyage was really coming to an end. No more coldness. There was a warmth upon the tongue. Smiles instead of swears. No thought of what had happened, of things seen and done, but only of what was to come. Visions of a long gangway run out from the shed, men with packed bags on shoulders swaggering down it to the quay to where wives and mothers and sweethearts would be waiting. They heard wind and rain. But it meant nothing to them. Let it roar, let the rain soak and horizon dance. There were things to be done, thoughts to be thought, and vivid pictures to pass through the minds of them all. Looking backwards meant nothing, looking forward meant everything. There was an urgency there, the air breathed it, scattered clothes and waiting bags proclaimed it. Voyage was ending. They were leaving. Getting out. It was all over. Finished. The packing went on.

  In the glory-hole men slept deeply They were drenched in sleep. One dreamed, crying out, but nobody heard it. They lay like logs, sprawled, curled up, spread-eagled, deep in sleep. They heard no engines, no crying wind, no pouring rain. They were hidden and immune. Covered in sleep nothing could touch them. Their days had been caught up in confusion, some had slept standing, or kneeling once, they knew no day nor hour. Tending men. Feeding, bedding, cleaning, bandaging, wolfing food, flirting with sleep, hearing cries and curses, thinking of nothing but sleep. And now surrender.

  The air was stuffy, the ports closed, door fast shut, jammed with the sleeve of a jacket. Articles of clothing lay about, the deck was littered with debris, empty cigarette-tins and tobacco wrappers, cigarette ends, a piece of string, a tin cup, a broken saucer. More articles of clothing hung untidily from drawers jammed shut. A hand gripped a curtain hanging, a head was thrown over the rail of a top bunk, giving an air of sudden and violent abandonment. A sickly electric light shone down on this. Loud snores filled the stuffy air.

  Sometimes a sleeper became restless, tossing about in his bunk. A man woke suddenly, sat upright in his bunk, stared round the glory-hole with bewilderment, then fell back again, dragging the blanket over his head. One lower bunk near the door was empty, stripped clean. The mattress, pillow and blankets were rolled up, lashed together with rope. The bundle lay jammed beneath the bunk. On the bulkhead there was a photograph of a woman with two children, a cigarette-card photo of a famous actress, a French nude. Below these the marks where other pictures had hung, apparently torn down, as pieces of these still adhered to the bulkhead, held by glue. This had been Marvel's bunk.

  Below stairs, standing in the storeroom, Mr. Walters in shirtsleeves fumed and sweated, dragging boxes and cases full and empty from one part of the storeroom to the other. He continually felt the top of his head as though he were making certain that it still stood upon his broad shoulders, or perhaps his head was swelling, but the hand went to it, feeling it with unceasing regularity. On the other hand it may have been a quite simple headache. He wished Mr. Hump would hurry up. The man was like a snail. Mr. Walters was not even aware that it rained, or wind blew, and as for those engines, it meant nothing to him beyond a continual noise in his ears.

  He sat down on a box, patted one knee, and wondered just how long Mr. Hump would be. There was work to do. It had only just begun. The inventory of stores, used and unused, the report for the catering department, the simple arithmetic to be worked out as between Mr. Hump and himself. And lastly there was the Bank in Mile Road, thoughts of the pub.

  'I wish that devil would hurry up.'

  He got up and went to the door, bawling down the corridor.

  'Are you coming, Mr. Hump?'

  His loud voice penetrated into the glory-hole where the stewards slept but they did not hear it.

  Mr. Walters lit a cigarette, blew smoke angrily into the air.

  'Bloody slow-coach.'

  Mr. Hump heard the wind and the rain, and he was busy shaving. Whilst he shaved he indulged in the pleasant pastime of building dream-castles, somewhere in the North Atlantic ocean. Mr. Walters waited, but Mr. Hump was quite calm, quite unhurried. Let him wait. After all, what was taking inventories? A dull routine job. And there was that division of the spoils before the ship eventually tied up. Mr. Hump repeated these words to himself, but when he said, 'tie-up,' the razor slipped and he cut himself.

  'Damn the thing,' he growled low in his throat. 'Don't be too optimistic, you fool,' he warned. 'Don't. For God's sake, don't.' How could any man be certain? Of anything? ANYTHING? Besides, would A.10 tie up?

  He dabbed a handkerchief to his face, finished his shaving. Then he washed and combed his hair. He put on a dirty white jacket, greasy cap, and went out. He did not go at once to the storeroom. He went up on deck instead. Mr. Hump had a sudden desire to look at the water, to feel the air upon his face. But he made a hasty retreat and went direct to the storeroom.

  'Well, hang it,' Mr. Walters said. 'You've been long enough, haven't you?'

  'It's pelting rain outside,' Mr. Hump said. 'I'm sure we're going to have a bit of rough weather, Mr. Walters. I never saw such rain. It's simply pouring.'

  'Is it?' replied Walters. 'Give me a hand with this tinned stuff. Oh, and by the way, I've just come across a half barrel of rotten apples. I am mad about them. Rotting away there and I not knowing about it. But damn it, in this bloody world you can't think of everything. Anyhow I thought we might send them for'ard. The men might like to have them. Oh, and did you tell Crilly and Devine about shifting their beds again? I want these men properly looked after. By heavens, Hump, I'll be glad to see everybody's back. I've been hearing all sorts of rumours too. From young Mr. Ericson. But I shut my ears to the damned lot of it.

  He picked up a ledger, spread it open on his knees, bit the end of his pencil, called out: 'Ready?'

  'Ready,' replied Mr. Hump.

  'Fire away! Apparently from what I heard they're going to put all those men into a tender, rush them ashore at once. But we might not be so lucky.'

  'Half-hundredweight oatmeal. One flour. Quarter rice. No! Sago, I mean. One case chunks.'

  'Yet another rumour I heard was that nobody would go ashore until the ship had been examined. It'll be a swine if we have to go into quarantine. I never thought of that, curiously enough, and curse the first devil who did, anyhow.'

  'Twenty-four butter. Ten jam. Two dozen tinned spuds. One quarter coffee-beans.'

  'Anyway, we're making right for the light, and I suppose we'll drop anchor somewhere around. Wouldn't care to be in Mr. Dunford's shoes, anyhow. That's another thing. You remember the lists that were made out by those men when they were stowing in C and D decks? Well, you must get those from the bosun. They got to go on top. Should have been thought of long ago. What the hell does a bosun want to be going about for, carrying lists of dead men in his pocket? Don't forget, Mr. Hump. They're important. But think of the questions that Dunford'll have to answer. Ah! Anyhow, I don't think they'll beat the bloody Turks somehow. Do you?'

  'Quarter-hundredweight lentils. Four pots barley. One dozen mouse-traps. Keg marg.'

  The funny thing is everybody is suddenly worrying about us, when all the fuss is over. Trust them for that. Bloody lot of sods. I've had my own feelings for a long time now and—'

  'And one bag of what looks like muck to me,' Mr. Hump said.

  'You know it's a funny thing,' the relief look-out said, climbing out, 'you know it's a funny thing, Rochy, you were the first in and now you're bloody well last in. It's been a fair mucker up here I can tell you, but what the hell, we're getting somewhere. Going home, I reckon. Spite of this coat and these skins I'm soaked through. Well, keep your eye cocked, old lad. So-long.'

  Whilst Rochdale buttoned up his reefer he looked over, watching the other descend. Near the cross-trees, he suddenly appeared all arms and legs, as though he were floating in air, being gently wafted down to terra firma. Then Rochdale lost sight of him.

  It was fast growing dark. The rain had thinned almost to a drizzle, the wind veered round
. Men were busy below at the ventilators.

  Rochdale, like the others, had packed his bag. Everything save bare necessities had been put in, and he had left it standing, lashed to his bunk. 'Heck,' he said. 'Dark all of a sudden.'

  Annie and Rosie came suddenly into his mind, and before he could hold on to them, they flashed away again. Or shouldn't he think of them? Or was it that he hadn't to think of them, just in case . . . you never knew? But again they returned, seemed to stand in front of him for a second, laughing up at him, and then they were gone. He suddenly struck the bell. Light to port. He then saw a second light, a flashing light.

  'By God,' he thought, 'we're not far off now.'

  'Passed Fastnet four-twenty-one. Heavy ground swells. Wind SSW.'

  Mr. Dunford, dressed in his best uniform, and a new hat, sat at his table, casually turning the pages of the log-book. Then he closed it, got up and put it in the drawer. He stood in the middle of the cabin, hands in his pockets. He was thinking that he ought to finish off that report. Otherwise all was done, all set and ready. They would lie in the river. Not a doubt of that. There would be tenders rushing out, and many men boarding A.10, those who dealt in conundrums and those who asked no questions. He was ready for them, everyone.

  Mr. Ericson had gone for'ard, he was now giving orders to the bosun. Extra look-out men had been posted. Danger lay in traffic lanes, not in the wilderness. Danger lurked where many lights were, lights that seemed to float in air, like moving stars. He had been reading his diary. He felt glad now that he had been able to keep a diary of that trip. He must go out now. From now on it would be bridge, and no rest for him. He went out, joining Mr. Deveney.

  Mr. Deveney was irritable, restless, pacing to and fro. The worst part of a voyage was near the end. Bells were ringing in his ears, he knew what traffic lanes meant, but from time to time Acacia Villa would rise up and blot this out. Irritableness grew from this. He joined Mr. Dunford as soon as he realized he was on. He could not see him very well, but he had recognized the footsteps.

  'Well, sir!' exclaimed Dunford. 'Everything going all right?'

  'Yes. Everything.' There was the bell again. And again.

  'What time do you think we'll make our position, Mr. Dunford?'

  'About four o'clock.'

  'They're ready for us, I hope. I'm never optimistic myself as shore authorities have a habit of having moods. I hate moods.'

  'So do I,' replied Dunford. 'You may be sure they are ready, Mr. Deveney. I can see them already, they're fixed clearly in my mind, as they mount the accommodation ladder, all spick and span and full of enthusiasm, lips loaded with questions, and what they'll do, and where you'll go, and how it happened, and why, and reports on this and that, etc., etc., etc.,' he concluded, laughing.

  'I haven't ruled out possible quarantine,' Mr. Deveney said.

  'Who would? I'm not thinking of that so much as the men for'ard. They may take it into their heads not to recognize quarantine. Has Mr. Ericson gone for'ard with those orders?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Again a bell rang, and at that moment Mr. Ericson returned to the bridge.

  'Mr. Ericson.'

  'Coming, sir.'

  He was smiling, he knew things, and one was that they would be in the river by 4 a.m.

  'Quartermaster, tell Mr. Walters I want to see him up here at once.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Mr. Ericson, do you know we shall be swinging round and making for the South within twenty-four hours?' asked Mr. Dunford.

  The smile went from-Ericson's face.

  'In twenty-four hours, sir? We'll only have cable down an hour or so, Mr. Dunford.'

  'Exactly. That's what it looks like to me. Still, don't look so glum,' he added laughing, and Mr. Ericson walked away to stand by Mr. Deveney.

  He knew there was something he wanted to say to the senior officer, but somehow it had quite slipped his memory. Slipped as easily as that smile from his face. Perhaps Mr. Dunford had divined its meaning. Perhaps he hadn't. Still. . .

  'I say, Mr. Deveney,' he began, and the other man turned round. 'I'm not so sure about things, at least not like I was yesterday.' He stopped suddenly. This wasn't what he had intended saying to Mr. Deveney at all, it had just grown out of a certain uneasiness.

  'Not sure about what exactly?' asked Mr. Deveney.

  'Oh, everything,' Ericson said, 'everything,' laying emphasis on the words.

  'Worried about something, then?' said the other.

  'No, not exactly that, but Mr. Dunford was just telling me that we may have to turn quickly and proceed South. New to me.'

  'Ah,' said Mr. Deveney. 'You don't have to believe that, you know. That's only taking the edge off your cocksureness, Ericson.'

  There were two violent rings upon the bell, and so quickly did Mr. Ericson and Mr. Deveney part from each other, it seemed as though the tones of the bell itself had suddenly cleaved them apart.

  'Stand by the telegraph, Mr. Ericson,' snapped Dunford.

  'Mr. Deveney, make ready, stand by aft.'

  'Quartermaster, get for'ard and tell the bosun's mate to keep his men aft.'

  The engines were slowing down. They were being hailed now. The decks were alive with men, everybody seemed to be shouting suddenly.

  And then almost before they realized it they were in the broad river. There in the river and the light flashing.

  'Light three-forty-six a.m.'

  The rain had ceased. A.10 was lowering her cable. To starboard lay the sea, to port the sleeping city. Lights winked, went out, winked again. The silence was so sudden, it was with a kind of awe that one realized the engines had stopped, all noise spirited quietly away. Voices were hailing in the distance. Men were rushing from fo'c'sle and glory-hole, lining the rails, staring at the winking lights, the silhouettes of massed buildings, the whole sleeping waterfront. The sky was now clear, stars shone out brilliantly, the wind had eased down. Ahead and astern other ships lay. The anchor was home.

  Men returned to fo'c'sles and rooms and glory-holes. They began to put paid to those bags and boxes and trunks. Somewhere amidships men had suddenly started to sing. More shouts across the dark, swift-running waters of the river. The accommodation ladder was being made ready. A tender was already drawing near.

  Mr. Dunford stood in the port wing, looking down on this. In an hour he hoped those unfortunate men would be got away. Thinking of them, he was suddenly sad. He had seen them whole, and seen them broken. They were near to him, and soon they would be far away, fading out, from reality, from memory. Orders were being shouted below.

  He called Mr. Deveney and told him to go below and stand by the ladder to receive the boarding party. Then he went away, shut himself in the room. Suddenly a knock came. It was Mr. Walters.

  Oh yes. Of course. What could he have been thinking about? He had sent for the man. He asked him to sit down. He was seated himself, but like Mr. Deveney of a short period ago, restless, a little excited, 'Yes, Mr. Walters. I got those inventories all right. Thanks.'

  Mr. Walters wasn't even thinking of inventories. He looked down at the red-carpeted floor, saying quietly, in a halting way, 'Oh yes, Mr. Dunford. I – there's been another death, sir. Yes, the boy aft, sir. You remember, sir. I came right away on account of that only.'

  He had risen to his feet, half turned to leave, though waiting for the word from Mr. Dunford.

  'Oh yes, yes. Thanks. You'd best make arrangements, Mr. Walters.'

  That was all. Mr. Walters nodded, saying, 'Yes sir. Of course, sir,' and went out.

  Mr. Dunford sat erect, stiff in his seat. Another death. How easy it seemed after all. The boy. Of course. He remembered.

  'Yes, it's very easy,' he said. 'Very easy.'

  Dawn was breaking at last. The outlines, the blurs and the shadows became substance with the hour, the river was becoming alive with traffic. Tugs and barges, liners great and small. Destroyers, monitors, mine-sweepers, sailing craft, ferry-boats. The river had waked up. The tall bui
ldings were hard, steely against the clear sky. The river was calm. No rain or wind. And then it was daylight. The morning was beautiful. The tenders had come and gone. The broken ones had departed. The saloon was empty. Stewards everywhere were cleaning up.

  They had thrown tiredness from them like a discarded coat, now they were busy, making heaps of rags and paper, broken crockery and empty tins, old bandages, blood-stained sheets and blankets, last relics of that voyage. They whistled and hummed. There was something in the morning air, in that hard white light through the port, in the salt tang of air itself, in the swift running current of the river, in the orchestra of sounds that came to their ears from tugs and ferry-boats, horns and whistles and bells.

  And the heaps grew, and into them was going all that was old and useless. These would be burnt. There would be new harvestings elsewhere. Always they stole up to open ports, peered through, saw the inviting city, returned to their tasks with renewed hope.

  For'ard the well-deck was packed with bags. Men were dressed in their go-ashore clothes. They were only waiting for the tender. And when at last it arrived they clambered over, hurriedly, awkwardly, sailed down the ladders, reached the tender's deck, stood for a moment looking up at the ship and then they turned their eyes shorewards.

  'Good-bye A.10, damn you.'

  'To hell with you.'

  'Aye. Finished with all that.'

  'To hell with the ship anyhow.'

  There was the inviting shore. The engines chugged, the tug gave a short blast, veered slowly away from the tall ship, and men turned and watched her receding away into the distance. She was nearly empty now. But they knew she would not lie at anchor long. They knew that Mr. Dunford was closeted in conference, that he was answering all those questions, and they knew he could not leave A.10. He was not free like them. He was sealed to that ship, that ship that was now becoming small, even insignificant looking, on the horizon. And then they turned their backs once more and looked at the approaching city. They did not look at A.10 any more.